


Letters With Love

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 2 parter, Angst, Chef Dean Winchester, Cute Ending, Domestic Castiel/Dean Winchester, Family Secrets, First Meetings, Grandfathers, Grieving Castiel, Grumpy Castiel, House Cleaning, Humor, Korean War, Letters, Light Angst, Love Letters, M/M, Mild Smut, Phone Sex (almost), Sad Castiel, Secret Lovers, Sexual Humor, Surprise Ending, Teacher Castiel, To Be Continued, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2019-02-08 05:24:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12857682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: "You were right."Dean’s mouth parts because from the other man’s is a distinct gruffness. He eyes the guy up and down (and tries not to gawk too much because he’s really handsome) like a meteor just crashed on his doorstep. "Cas?! How did you find me?""The same way you found my phone number,” Cas sasses. “We're not living in the '50's anymore, Dean. Computers aren't just for data entry."





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact, MY grandpa actually served in the Korean War. I think this is a nice little homage.

It's never too late for spring cleaning.

In fact, it's wintertime, so really, rather than a half a year late, Dean's three months ahead of schedule.

At least, that’s his explanation as to why he finds himself in his dusty, cryptic, classic horror film type of attic surrounded by even dustier and even more cryptic envelopes that look like they’ve survived multiple wars. His suspicions are confirmed when his curiosity consumes him, flipping the tab and opening the one closest to the top of the unmarked box. Inside is a handwritten letter on paper good enough to wear—the kind that dances its cotton legs across the pads of Dean’s digits when he holds it. It’s in cursive and clearly rushed, judging by the intermingling swirls between letters and the long stems of the vowels.

In the top right-hand corner is the date: July 8, 1951.

“Holy shit,” Dean breathes, having skipped ahead of the story to the last few sentences. This can’t be real.  His grandfather had to have had a wicked sense of humor.

Then again, how could he make up a name like Sariel?

 

_My dearest Samuel,_

_It’s with confidence that I say it’s been a year since I’ve been commissioned here. Confidence that this will come to an end and that we’ll be reunited. You know what they say: An apple a day. But here in Korea, an apple will only keep you sweet, because a medic’s work is never finished. The dying will need me as long as the war is alive._

_I’ve seen so much death, so much destruction. But you are my apple. I am just the worm that’s lucky enough to wrap around your beautiful core._

_Stay sweet, my darling._

_With love,_

_Sariel_

 

 

Dean copies the number into his call log and hits the green button. A few rings later, a man with a gruff voice answers: “ _Who is this?”_

"Hi. Is this…” Dean pauses, pulling the phone back to look at the obscure rip-off genealogy website for support. “Cass-tee-ell Novak?"

" _No, no,_ no,” Castiel asserts, voice practically rumbling on the last negative. “ _For the love of God, whatever garbage it is you're trying to throw into my bin, you can shove it up your meddling little—”_

"Oh no," Dean interrupts with a laugh, "I'm not a telemarketer. My name’s Dean Winchester, I'm a normal guy. I just found something in my attic with your grandfather's name on it. Some old letters... they were addressed to _my_ grandfather, funny enough…"

" _So_?" Judging by the heavy pause and the defensive tone, he’s more curious than he's letting Dean believe, but Dean’s amazed by the sheer cluelessness in his voice as well. He remembers when _he_ was too deep in the closet to see Aaron Bass trying to ask him out junior year, but this guy can’t possibly expect him to…

He scoffs, shifting in his stance, "So, I'm saying old letters, dated the 1950's. Wartime. Oppression. Two men."

" _Cut to the chase."_

"Okay,” Dean replies, shrugging. “I think your grandfather had an affair with my grandfather."

Another heavy pause follows, and then Castiel rejoins with: " _If this is some kind of crank call—"_

"It's not. Look, I just figured they're technically your property and that you might want them—”

_"I don't. Don't call this number again."_

“Hel—?” Dean pulls his phone back to see the screen lit up in red.

Obviously charm doesn’t run in the family.

 

 

Dean’s migrates downstairs, heaps of old books and photo albums long forgotten in favor of the letters. There’s already a lot of things Dean doesn’t know about his grandfather aside from having a hard time after his wife Deanna passed in the late ‘90’s, and that he, like a true Campbell, eased it with whiskey. He also got into a lot of fights—more than a sixty-something should—and placed bets with the insurance money, losing his house in the process. Dean, just twenty at the time but already a highly successful chef, bought the place before the bank could get to it, and the rest is history. Samuel died of a broken heart not too long after.

So these letters, they’re like closure for Dean. Seeing how much he was loved by this army medic, how much time he invested collecting these letters—and crying reading them, going by the wavy, ink-blotted parts of some of them. He only wishes he could see what his grandfather wrote in return.

The doorbell rudely interrupts his teleportation to September, 1950. When Dean opens it, he’s nothing less than annoyed seeing a man with a bundle of papers in his wiry forearms. “Look, Sir, whatever you’re selling, I appreciate your dedication, but—”

"You were right."

Dean’s mouth parts because from the other man’s is a distinct gruffness. He eyes the guy up and down (and tries not to gawk too much because he’s _really_ handsome) like a meteor just crashed on his doorstep. "Cas?! How did you find me?"

"The same way you found my phone number,” Cas sasses. “We're not living in the '50's anymore, Dean. Computers aren't just for data entry."

Cas brushes past Dean after that last statement, leaving Dean to scoff, "Yeah, sure, come on in."

 

“Your turn.”

Cas clears his throat, making the dark stubble on his throat dance, “‘Sariel… You don’t know how good it is to hear from you. I’ve spent too many nights awake. Wondering. Praying you were okay—and you know I’m not big into God like you are. Before I met you, I had no faith in _anything_ , and the thought of that all being’…” Cas’s hand flies to his mouth so he can chew on his finger. His voice comes out shaky when he starts again: “‘The thought of that all being ripped away is terrifying. Please just stay safe. I mean it. Samuel.’”

Dean has to turn away, because if he’s not ogling Cas’s long, tanned neck, it’s his eyes—blue as the sea Sariel probably flew over to get to South Korea—scanning the paper before him. Or the pink and slightly chapped lips he has a habit of biting on. Dean can’t imagine having to hide his bisexuality in the ‘50’s unless he had a death wish. It makes him realize how much he takes for granted.

“I, um… I think it’s your turn now,” Cas states, turning his head in the opposing direction.

“Right, uh…” Dean slides the letter before that one to the bottom of his own stack. He licks his lips before beginning the next one, dated a little over three weeks after the one Cas read: “‘My dearest Samuel… I can’t bear the thought of you in pain. I’m a doctor; my job is to help people with their pain.’” Dean chances a glance at Cas, who’s still facing away from him and gnashing his teeth into his finger. “‘I would write more if I could, but there are so many people in your position—so many suffering for a war they didn’t ask for.

“‘If only it was enough for me to reassure you with these letters. It’s I that misses you every day as well. But my faith is unshakable. If we’re going to win this war— _our_ war—I believe in keeping our wits about us. Remember, I’m a doctor, so you have to trust me when I say pain and suffering are temporary. It’s my love for you that’s worth a lifetime and a day. Please try, for me. Try to let that be enough for now. With love, Sariel.’” Dean’s heart pounds as he whips around to face Cas. “When did your grandfather pass away?”

Cas cranes his head in the slightest, releasing his jaws from his finger. “In ’97. July. Why do you ask?”

“Oh my God.”

“What?”

“My grandmother passed in ’97 too, May,” Dean scoffs, looking back down at the letter. “My grandfather wasn’t just grieving the loss of one person in his life—he was grieving _two_. My grandmother and—”

“My grandfather.” Cas turns his back all the way now to face Dean with sagging lips. “Dean, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Dean says, focusing on the long stem of the ‘e’ in Sariel that slices through the swirly ‘l’ and smiles. “It’s not your fault your grandpappy was a kickass dude.”

"No…” Cas says, “I mean, yes, I’m sorry for your loss, but I’m also sorry about earlier. On the phone. I hadn't heard much of the world after my granddad passed, you know? I know it's been years, but it's still hard. He was the only family I had left, so the world stopped singing after he died."

Dean nods. "It's alright. I get that. My little brother was closer to mine than I was, but when we lost him, Sam sort of lost himself too, and I was left to pick up the pieces… sorry, I don't know why I'm telling you all this."

"No need to apologize," Cas reassures. A brief silence is shared between them before the papers on Cas’s end rustle again. “‘Sariel, you’ve done more for me than you know. Hopefully when you return, I’ll be able to show you a glimpse of it. But for now, I’ll clutch this pen in one hand, and myself in the other. Know that I’ll be thinking of you as I do so. Stay safe. Samuel.’” Cas’s throat manages to bounce a few times after that last sentence. He turns the paper in Dean’s direction as reference. “Old school sexting, can you believe it?”  

Dean laughs a little too, “Guess they had to keep their gonads in business somehow during wartime.”

“Guess so,” Cas agrees with a small smile, shaking his head. “Three years. Can you imagine that?”

Dean can’t. And he doesn’t want to, either. "Cas, can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"I hate to repeat history—especially since we saw how well that worked out—but… would you… maybe wanna see a movie sometime?"

A big, gummy smile unfetters from the confines of Cas’s lips as he answers, "I'd like that a lot, Dean."


	2. Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He knows he’s being clingy, but damnit, he’s went most his life not having someone to cling to after his Granddad Sariel’s passing. And being clingy in the foster system was ill-advised, seeing as most homes would take him in for a few weeks, maybe a month, before they threw him back into the jaws of the government. And if clinginess is unattractive on him, Dean hasn’t said anything. Seriously, he dressed himself in clinginess with those pink satiny panties Cas bought for Dean’s birthday and hasn’t received a response since. Cas hates taking pictures of himself—let alone pictures that revealing. 
> 
> How Granddad Sariel managed to survive years without Dean’s granddad is beyond him. Cas can barely keep it together a couple weeks without Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This went from Teen to ALMOST Explicit, whoops.

**One Year Later**  

5 times.

Five times he’s called Dean.

Cas knows he’s busy; knows Austin is a big deal. The proof is in the pudding—literally, Dean barely touched his Turducken and breaded pudding over dinner last weekend. Cas didn’t have the heart to mention how Dean had barely eaten all day. How can he when Dean rolls in like a storm when he’s excited? His green eyes glaze over like fog during wintertime in Illinois, his home state, and Cas finds himself mesmerized. His freckles are the Illinois hail, bouncing off the inside of his cheeks every time he hits a particularly exciting detail, leaving dents in the corners just above his plush pink lips. And his hands, those calloused yet incredibly strong hands whipping around in the air like lightening. Cas is surprised he heard anything from his mouth.

While he’s happy for Dean, he can’t help turning into the classic loner scene in a movie. All that’s missing is “Jealous Guy” playing in the background as the beep to Dean’s voicemail sounds.

“Hey, um… just wanted to check in. I’m sure you’re busy entertaining. I saw on Gordon Ramsey’s Twitter that he’s gonna be in Austin tonight, so be sure to get me an autograph if he stops by the restaurant. Or, you know, at least have him tweet something snarky about my homemade macaroni—and don’t act like you don’t have the picture still, I know you do…” Cas pulls the phone away. Why is he getting emotional over this? “Anyway, uh, love you. I’ll talk to you when you can, I guess. Okay… bye.”

Cas clicks call end with a sigh before flopping down onto their bed. The moon’s starting to get a bit nosier, shining its brights through the half-drawn blinds. He glances over at his alarm clock, and, for a whole minute, just watches the beady red eyes of the colon blink. He could go to sleep now, spare himself the internal monologue of how many hours of shut-eye he clocked in the night before, and just stop thinking about this situation altogether. That would be the wise thing to do.

But, like most nights, he’s distracted by Dean. He returns to the memory of them in Biggerson’s. His eyes. His freckles. His smile. The things that smile’s wrapped around… Cas’s fingers, for one, that are now between his hardening dick and the fabric of his briefs...

Cas reaches over the bed with his free hand and snatches his cock-blocking cell that's vibrating on the nightstand. “Well, well,” he says, settling back into the bed, trying to play it cool despite the prickling heat in his abdomen. “I thought you ran off with another chef.”

“ _Well, there_ is _a really cute guy._   _I don’t think he’ll get too far, though, so I won’t get too attached. The only thing he can make is a grilled cheese and he somehow manages to burn the cheese…”_

“Okay, alright, I get it; I suck at cooking,” Cas retorts, but not without a smile.

“ _My taste buds would have to agree.”_

Cas presses the phone tighter to his ear. “Are you in the kitchen?”

“ _Sorta,”_ Dean replies, followed by more pots and pans clanking and what sounds like a Southern girl’s cry for pecan pie. Dean laughs, setting off Cas’s heart again like an old-timey alarm clock with the bells on top. “ _I’m sneaking out for a minute—or trying to, anyway. Desserts are Benny’s forte. Well, that and…”_

“And what?”

“ _You know… I may have dated Liz.”_

“Who’s Liz?”

 _“The one screaming at the top of her lungs,”_ Dean answers. “ _Benny’s niece.”_

Cas sits up straighter until he’s leaning halfway against the bedpost. “Dean, Dean, Dean,” he tsks, “though I’m not surprised…” Cas slides his hand back underneath his underwear, the backs of his fingers brushing against a distinct sticky wet spot. “You’ve always been a naughty boy.”

Dean sounds like he’s swallowing Lake Tahoe on the other end. “ _Cas…”_

“Say it to me, Dean,” Cas moans, “tell me you’re a naughty boy.”

“ _On my way! I’m sorry. We’ll pick this up later, yeah?”_

Cas frowns, but nods, mostly to reassure himself. “Okay. I—”

Cas pulls his phone back to see the screen lit up in red and sighs.

“I love you,” he murmurs.

 

 

Cas calls three more times the next day. He knows he’s being clingy, but damnit, he’s went most his life not having someone to cling  _to_  after his Granddad Sariel’s passing. And being clingy in the foster system was ill-advised, seeing as most homes would take him in for a few weeks, maybe a month, before they threw him back into the jaws of the government. And if clinginess is unattractive on him, Dean hasn’t said anything. Seriously, he  _dressed_ himself in clinginess with those pink satiny panties Cas bought for Dean’s birthday and hasn’t received a response since. Cas  _hates_ taking pictures of himself—let alone pictures that revealing.

How Granddad Sariel managed to survive years without Dean’s granddad is beyond him. Cas can barely keep it together a few  _weeks_ without Dean.

He sighs, steam from more than just the hot water rolling off him when he revisits his phone. **Hey sorry,** he types back, all but jamming the keys on his keyboard,  **I was in the shower.**

Dean replies, but not until later that night, around 8:  **No worries. U still down for a little roleplay?**

 **Not really.** Cas follows up in a separate text with:  **Sorry, I just had a rough day at work.**

Dean is typing…  **U wanna talk about it?**

**Not really. I think I’m just gonna go to bed.**

Dean is typing…  **Ok… love u. <3**

Cas smiles a little, though, even in the privacy of his own home, it’s forced. He hates lying to Dean, but as clingy as he is, he doesn’t want to ruin Dean’s work trip. So he types back with his own heart at the end, telling him that he loves him too, and turns his phone off so the anxiety of Dean responding doesn’t consume him whole. At least not until morning.

 

 

“I’m sorry, Garth, there has to be some mistake.”

Garth just shrugs, wrinkling the freshly-pressed blue sleeves on his work shirt. He shakes his head in disbelief. “I thought so too. I haven’t put handwritten mail in someone’s box since ’03.”

“Thanks,” Cas says, watching as Garth waves his thin arm in return before hopping back in his mail truck. He looks at the letter again. That’s definitely Dean’s handwriting, emphasizing every letter with a capitol like it’s gospel, though neat at the same time, with no letters bleeding into the next, despite the black pen having a clear hemorrhage halfway through. It’s written on simple college-ruled paper, but Dean’s never been one to stay within the lines. The letter is two pages, front and back, because he takes up about three lines a letter.

He starts reading—immediately tearing up at the first few words:

 

_My dearest Castiel,_

_I’m writing to inform you I’ve received your photograph via your homing pigeon… by that I mean I saw your dick pics once I got better service. Beautiful and impressive as always._

_Anyway, I know I haven’t been keeping up with you these last couple weeks, and that’s not cool. You deserve better than that. You’ve been there for me more times than I can count, and even if something did happen_  _at the_   _school, I would want to return the favor and be there for you. So hopefully when I return, I’ll be able to show you a glimpse of it. Of just how fucking in love I am with you._

_But for now, I’ll clutch this pen in one hand and myself in the other. Know that I’ll be thinking of you as I do so._

_Probably. I might also be thinking about Hugh Jackman._

_Stay the best boyfriend in the world._

_With a whole lotta love, Dean_

**Author's Note:**

> Sariel translates to guidance (according to a website I found off Google anyway - where else?). I thought that was fitting, considering his role in this story.


End file.
